


A Spark to Smoke to Roaring Flames

by Gidgit2u



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gidgit2u/pseuds/Gidgit2u
Summary: Everyone has something that captivates them, drives them, grounds them. When interests collide, Wood and Flint will discover the extent of their obsessions, and that all it takes for change, is a spark to set the forest ablaze.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Death_by_Quill](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Death_by_Quill) collection. 



> I own nothing but the plot and receive no monetary compensation.

He wasn't completely sure when it had begun, but he'd bet all the galleons in his pocket that it had sparked when he was five. His da had taken him to see the local teams play on their village’s magically concealed pitch, located east of Glasgow.

They weren’t a very talented team; the game play disjointed with lots of fouls, shouting and shoving. When play had finished, however, each member appeared quite jovial, exchanging smiles, handshakes and firm pats on the back.

Despite this inauspicious introduction, Oliver Wood had noticed an underlying rhythm, a beauty, to the sport. He'd spent that night — and countless nights for years thereafter — dreaming of burly figures in clashing colours whirring around a pitch, the cracking sound of balls hitting bats and passing through rings amid curses and cheers.

Like a flint striking rock against dry kindling, it'd turned a spark into smoke into roaring flames. Oliver would pinpoint that game as the catalyst of his obsession.

He'd begged his da to let him have a broom.

“ _Please_ da!” He'd cried, his grubby five year old fingers gripping tightly to a worn and faded but neatly patched trouser leg. “I want to learn to guard the hoops.”

“What makes you certain you’re to be a Keeper then lad?” His da had asked with a pacifying grin and a ruffle to Oliver’s hair. His ma had shaken her head and continued charming the sofa cushions clean with a rueful grin upon timeworn lips.

“I just _know_ da, right here,” Oliver had pointed to his chest, right to the very center. He could feel it in his marrow that he was meant to be a Keeper.

His incessant pleading had netted him a broom — basic in model and speed capped — safe and durable enough for the enthusiasm and invincibility of extreme youth. Oliver had pushed that broom to it’s limits; his parents anticipating but completely underestimating his unbridled enthusiasm and determination to learn the game that had cost his da his left leg and most of his teeth.

He’d taken to Quidditch like a grindylow to water, and had practiced whenever possible. Oliver’s first book had been ‘Quidditch Through the Ages,’ and he'd memorized all the members and statistics of the professional leagues by the time he'd turned seven.

Oliver had also been captivated with the village team’s triple-hoop guardian, and had snuck on down to the local pitch frequently in the subsequent years to observe him, analyzing his skill and control on the broom; as well as those who followed when the first Keeper moved on.

It was only years later that Oliver realized the extent of his captivation with being a Keeper wasn't solely due to the sport itself.

 

**-+++++-**

 

He was never one for the books, preferring to spend his days tormenting grasshoppers and playing in the ponds around his property.

Marcus Flint was a tactile child, determined and forceful and to the constant exasperation of his mother, completely and utterly reckless. He didn't seem to grasp cause and effect, hurling himself into situations that would cause most children his age to wet themselves, or crawl toward the comfort of their mother’s bosom.

Always on, Marcus was at full speed from dawn until dusk; their village’s mediwizard a frequent patronage of their estate and on a first name basis by the time Marcus was six, despite it being a trifle gauche.  By the time he was eight, Marcus’s parents had received two warnings from the Ministry of Magic about his explosive accidental magic; curt directives insisting they ‘ _get it under control!_ ’

“He's going to self destruct,” he'd overheard his mother say in desperation one evening to his father, “I can't stand to watch him spiral with no focus for his energy. He's either mangling himself magically or physically, and honestly, some days I don't know which is worse… He needs an outlet… a _healthy_ outlet.”

His father had grumbled about goblins and gold and something to do with ‘the old ways’ but all Marcus could concentrate on were the words his father had muttered, “So be it. We’ll get him a broom, and even hire someone to train him.”

He’d been elated.

A broom, of his very own, and a personal instructor to boot.

The moment Marcus had sat atop his broom he'd _known_. This was where he was meant to be, what he was meant to do. 

Books held nothing more for him than illegible scripts and musty smells, and no matter the effort he put forth, he couldn't seem to grasp what he was expected to learn.

On the broom, however, the world had sharpened, became focused. His mind had cleared and he was able to mull over and process concepts that had stumped him for days. He’d felt a calmness seep through his veins, and for the first time, Marcus had felt grounded, despite floating five feet above the earth.

He'd found his anchor, his place of solace.

It was only years later that Marcus realized that part of his motivation, part of his calmness, had stemmed not just from the freedom the broom gave, but from the desire to see mirth and pride in the cerulean orbs that had watched and trained him.

 

**-+++++-**

 

His nerves were taut, his limbs jittery with anticipation. He didn't know if he'd rather puke or laugh. He knew he must look the fool, his face screwed up in similar fashion to someone needing a good prune cleanse, and it was all he could do to hold onto his breakfast as he walked out of the Great Hall toward the pitch.

“Oi, Wood,” called a voice, one stumbling over the pubescent line between soprano and baritone. Oliver was thankful his voice hadn't yet mutated, and hoped to be spared the humiliation of random pitch breaks by having the change occur during the summer months.

“Flint,” Oliver said as neutrally as he could muster, in deference to his pre-game nerves.

He'd seen the third year around Hogwarts, well aware he'd been on the Slytherin team the year before. Oliver had noticed him, but they'd never spoken before this moment. He hadn't even been aware Flint knew his name.

“Don't choke out there ya?” Quipped Flint, “It’s no fun when it's an easy win!” He elbowed him — though not as hard as the angle would make it appear — before stalking away toward the pitch; robes flapping around his ankles, broom slung over his shoulder.

It was Oliver’s first game. He'd been chosen over many older students to be Gryffindor’s Keeper, and his first test of will and skill was against the House of Slytherin. Oliver knew he was right to be nervous; Slytherins didn't always play fair. He’d witnessed Flint being right _nasty_ on the field, and if rumours were to be believed, he was off it as well.

There'd been something, though, something almost _friendly_ , in their interaction just now. Flint’s elbow hadn't connected as hard as it could have, instead, he’d pressed in just enough for Oliver’s stomach to do a small flip. Although similar to a ribbing he himself would give a teammate or friend, he'd never before felt the sensation that had fluttered through him at the contact with Flint’s elbow.

He'd been close, close enough to see the spattering of freckles upon Flint's tanned nose and a scar that slivered through his left eyebrow and Oliver belatedly realized that their proximity hadn't been unpleasant in the least.

It had been almost… satisfying, in a way his second year mind couldn't grasp.

Slightly confused but now far less nervous, Oliver made his way down to the pitch for the game.

A game, that for him, ended two minutes in. He took a bludger to the head, having been distracted by the steely eyes and inky, windswept hair of the Slytherin chaser flying hard toward him.

Oliver hadn't even felt the impact.

**-+++++-**

 

Marcus was beyond pissed. He couldn't believe Wood had netted Potter. _Potter_ , for fucks sake! An ickle first year, who, according to Malfoy, flew ‘ _adequately_.’

Which meant ‘ _effin bloody spectacular_ ,’ when translated from the pure-blood vernacular of downplaying any and all things.

Bleedin’ McGonagall.

She was just as bad as him and all the rest, doing whatever was necessary to obtain the win. The rub was in the hypocrisy of it all.

Since only one team bled silver and green, only one team was reviled for their use of trickery and subterfuge. Slytherin tactics were dubbed ‘unsporting’ whilst the rest of the school turned blind eyes upon their own underhanded behaviours.

Handing a first year a spot on a team, _any_ team, blatantly flouted decades of precedented restriction and spat in the face of good sportsmanship. It chaffed at Marcus all the more because Wood benefited from the runt’s talents.

Oliver Wood.

The morning of Marcus’s first game in his third year, he'd taken notice of the Gryffindor Keeper’s agitation. The poor kid had looked ready to piss himself with nerves, and Marcus had felt a familiar memory of his own inaugural game — a morning spent hurling into a toilet — flicker across his conscious.  
Marcus had heckled him to snap the kid out of his anxiety. It'd been bad luck his voice had broken pitch in his presence, though Wood hadn't taken the piss about it like some of his mates had done.

He'd known Wood’s name since he'd spied on the Gryffindor tryouts for his captain; there'd been _something_ about the second year that had held his interest as he'd watched him hover around the hoops. Despite being a Slytherin, and a Sacred Twenty-Eight one at that, he'd felt an affinity for the tawny haired lion. Marcus couldn't put a finger on the allusive tie that bound his gaze, though knew enough to keep his interest carefully under wraps, hidden from his team and classmates.

Snakes and lions rarely associated well, typically one ended up bitten or poisoned.

Marcus hadn't counted on the feeling akin to lightening that shot across his chest at the contact of his elbow meeting ribs. A feeling he'd only experienced one time before, but didn't really understand the significance.

He hadn't understood until just before his sixth year.

When a bludger had knocked Wood off his broom two minutes into that first game, landing him in a magical coma for a week, Marcus had secretly visited him in the hospital wing. He'd told himself it was only to ensure his competition didn't succumb to anything other than the humiliation at being defeated by Marcus’s team.

But that couldn't explain the shake of Marcus’s knuckles as he looked upon the sleeping form of what _should_ be his rival. Nor the roll of emotions the memory of cinnamon eyes connecting with his steely ones evoked, their connection occurring moments before the sickening crunch of bludger meeting skull had knocked Wood from the sky.

Years passed, and Marcus had continually watched, observed, heckled and taunted Wood. It became his goal to rile him up before a game so that Wood’s eyes would flash fire and his cheeks would redden.

Marcus knew now what that feeling was that had shot across his chest the first time they'd touched. His sixteen year old self took great pleasure in coming up with ways to feel that exhilaration again; running into Wood in the corridor, slamming into him on the pitch, elbowing him out the way to the showers. He'd taunt and he'd tease and Wood would respond with the bluster and pride befitting his house.

There'd been instances where Marcus had thought he'd seen a glimpse of reciprocal appreciation or interest, but was too nervous to be wrong, too scared of the potential social fallout should he be misreading the signs.

Snakes and lions just didn't mix.

So Marcus stuck to what he did best, enraging and harassing his Quidditch rival, on the pitch and off. He wished they could talk about the sport, like proper mates. No one Marcus was acquaintances with was as interested in the game as he himself was, nor understood the intricacies like Wood did…

In fact, to his knowledge, there was no-one as obsessed with Quidditch than Oliver Wood.

It was common knowledge throughout the castle, and was greatly mocked in the Slytherin common room. Wood’s long-winded speeches were legendary, providing great fodder for ridicule. His tactician skills, though, grudgingly respected.

What wasn't common knowledge — wasn't known about at all — was that there was no-one as obsessed with Oliver Wood than Marcus Flint.

 

**-+++++-**

 

_‘Lost, we lost. I can't bloody believe… of all the ruddy rotten luck!’_ Oliver thought miserably, trudging toward the showers. _'I should have… and if Johnson had just… Fucking Potter…'_

He didn't blame Harry, poor bloke was recovering from a run in with _you-know-who_ that shouldn't have even been possible.

Still, altruistic knowledge did nothing to soothe the sting brought on by the lack of seeker and their team suffering the worst trouncing in a century.

As he neared the change rooms, he saw Flint approaching out of the corner of his eye.

“Tough break Wood,” Flint said, and before Oliver could snarl at him to piss off, Flint laid a hand upon his shoulder and squeezed. The gesture was brief, fleeting, rooting Oliver to the spot with a jolt that ran through his body at the contact.

“Don't drown yourself in there, ya? There’s always next year… Best stay in top form over the summer, though, Wood. It's no fun if it's an easy win.” Flint had smirked — more smile than menace — and sauntered off, robes flapping around his ankles and broom slung over his shoulder; leaving behind a still distraught though intrigued Oliver.

 

**-+++++-**

 

_‘Malfoy, that little shit!’_ Marcus fumed. He'd known his goose was cooked the moment Professor Snape had presented the new and expensive team brooms. If it had been up to him alone — _‘which it should have been seeing as I'm captain!’_ — Malfoy would not have been slotted in as the new Seeker. It was a disgusting show of nepotism and elitist bullying, and Marcus utterly detested both.

Hearing Malfoy spew venom at the runty second year muggleborn for having the guts to say what he himself wished he could, had made his stomach churn.

Seeing the look of revulsion and disgust on Wood’s face as Marcus had stood in front of his new _Seeker_ to ensure Malfoy wasn't justly maimed, had sliced deeper than if he'd been hit with a curse.

Though he was pureblood, one of the ‘Established Aristocracy,’ he'd always held a tarnished view of the upper crust. His mother had done well to ensure his mind wasn't poisoned by his father's twisted views.

Marcus’s flying instructor, who he'd revered, had been half blood; his first kiss, the muggle son of the village baker this summer past. Though he wore the mask of prejudice well to survive in the snake den, Marcus didn't believe one iota of their rhetoric or zeal.

“Oliver, you _know_ I don't believe in all the blood purity nonsense,” he said to him later, in between the library stacks of transfiguration tomes.

“As you’ve said, on various occasions,” sighed Oliver, “but it's hard to believe you when you wear the mask so well Marcus. How do you keep it from fusing to your skin?”

Oliver looked as if to touch him, his hand ghosting above Marcus’s arm, before he shook his head and moved away.

“There’ll come a day when you'll have to choose.” Oliver said over his shoulder. “I hope you'll choose…” He said no more, but the light from the lantern at the end of the stack illuminated his flushed cheeks and brightened eyes.

Then he was gone.

“I'll choose you,” Marcus whispered to the emptiness around him.

 

**-+++++-**

 

“I'm sorry,” Oliver said, dropping down beside Marcus at the base of the tree he'd hidden himself behind.

“Failing’s to be expected, ‘twas,” Marcus hiccuped, a bottle of Ogden's Finest clenched within his fist. “I've never been one for books or learning. All I've ever wanted to do was play Quidditch.”

“So have I,” said Oliver quietly, watching as Marcus took another long pull from the bottle.

“What's one more year of this place? S’not like I got any prospects… no scouts banging down _my_ door..”

“Give me that, Marcus,” Oliver said sharply, taking the bottle, their fingers briefly touching, and placing it out of Marcus’s reach. Though not before swiping a swig himself.

“Father threw me out… as  _I’m_  the embarrassment… I’m relieved… No more giving pretence to prejudice bullshit.” Marcus leaned against the tree and closed his eyes, missing Oliver regard him with relief bordering on tender.

“You have another year to get a scout’s attention.” Oliver said, elbowing Marcus, eyes popping open. “Another year to attempt to beat me.” He grinned lopsidedly.

Marcus laughed, eyes slightly glassy. Whether from drink or emotion, Oliver wasn't certain.

“Oh how I'd _love_ to beat you, Wood.” Marcus whispered, then stilled as if petrified.

Oliver had still heard.

Summoning all his Gryffindor courage, Oliver slid his hand over the grass until his fingers touched against Marcus’s. A pale pinkie nudged gently against bronze, thankfully receiving no rebuke, only shallow, quickened breathes. He slid his hand fully under Marcus’s, turning his palm to face his own, threading his roughened fingers through those mapped by their own calluses.

Oliver sighed contentedly, giving their joined hands a comforting squeeze, heart racing in his chest. He wasn't afraid.

Not anymore.

A breath expelled sharply out beside him, and clothing rustled as Marcus turned to face him.

“Ollie?” Marcus asked, vulnerability pouring from his eyes. It was all Oliver could do not to drown.

“We’ll get through this last year here, Marcus, and we’ll fight this war. Together.” Said Oliver.

A statement, not a question.

Like a flint striking rock against dry kindling, a spark turned into smoke into roaring flames.

It engulfed them both.

 

 

 

 


End file.
